


Know Your Right From Wrong

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: Policy of Truth [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Antagonism, Difficult people being difficult to each other, Lap Dances, M/M, Teambuilding, there is no cooperation here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing anyone does when Preston calls a group meeting is look for a way to avoid it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know Your Right From Wrong

The first thing anyone does when Preston calls a group meeting is look for a way to avoid it.

Codsworth has cleaning duty and sounds genuinely regretful about it; Sturges claims to be on the night guard shift, grinning the whole time it takes people to realise the roster is suddenly missing. Mama Murphy refuses on the grounds that without the Sight she might as well be useless- which is both untrue and blatantly unconvincing, but who’s going to argue with an abruptly fragile old woman?

Isaac tries. And then he accepts grudging defeat, whistles Dogmeat to heel, and trudges his resentful way to the meeting.

It’s drizzling outside, rain speckling the wooden window shutters. The room is too small. The walls are too close. The furniture consists of a ragged couch, two chairs, undersized coffee table, a bar stool and a map-covered blackboard. A single exposed light bulb does its best to brighten up the growing shadows; if they’re here too late, they’ll have to light candles.

Isaac wonders if total darkness might not be a better idea. In a room of people with volatile tempers and even less stable relationships, not being able to see each other might be a blessing. The way their last meeting ended-

People trickle in, treading rain all over the concrete. A welcoming smile from Preston. Hancock vaults over the back of the couch to claim a spot he ends up sharing with Nick. Codsworth’s absence becomes a blessing in the tight space, and Strong is outside making mud cakes or monologuing from Othello or whatever it is he does to entertain himself when he’s not intimidating settlers. Concordant with popular opinion, Isaac doesn’t give a shit what his people get up to in their free time. Only thing that matters is that they’re around when he wants backup.

“I’m glad you all found time for this meeting,” Preston says. “We’ve seen some serious raider traffic in the last few weeks, in places where raiders should know better than to go. Settlements are starting to get nervous. Can’t say I blame them, but it’s our job to do something about that.”

“Not me, chief,” Deacon says from the doorway.  Last to arrive. He pulls the door closed behind him, shutting out the downpour. “You know I’m just the comic relief side character. Class clown.”

“Village idiot,” Isaac offers, in the spirit of neighbourly good cheer. It gets him a smile, and Deacon flips him off in the friendliest way possible, which is basically what these meetings are all about. Bond with the team. Settle outstanding grievances in the name of cooperation.

_Blah, blah, motivational bullshit,_ Isaac thinks, but he appreciates the sight of Deacon shaking himself, dog-like, droplets of water soaking into the notebook Piper left on the only coffee table. The aim is too good to be coincidental. But then, Piper’s having to pony up for new notebooks at least once a week, given the rate hers seem to suffer unfortunate accidents. Some of which Isaac helps along.

If she’d just learn to stop trespassing on sensitive territory.

“Are we done with the preliminaries?” Preston asks. “It’s fine, I’ll just wait.” He perches on the edge of his bar stool, folds his arms, and his expression says it all. By this stage, he knows how team meetings tend to play out.

It’s not the best time to hold one. Saturday evening, dusk on the worn horizon, isolated sun showers over the region. It’s fifty-fifty as to whether the rain will go full rad storm on them, and nobody wants to be cooped up in this undersized building while the weather makes its mind up. They’ve got shit to do. Precautions to take, just in case the coin falls the wrong way. Isaac should be out stalking the perimeter, spot-checking the turrets and fencing. He’ll still have to if the rads start rising. And testing out a turret’s functions in bulky power armour gloves is nobody’s idea of a good time for the weekend.

At least he managed to grab a seat. Curie’s stuck perched on Piper’s knees; MacCready and Cait got the floor with Dogmeat. Danse is standing in a corner like his legs aren’t killing him after a day of storming ghouls in the Concord sewers. And Deacon-

Pushes his way through the crowded room to Isaac, grinning like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

“Watch it, pal,” he announces. “I’m coming in hot. Timber!” He throws an arm around Isaac’s neck, dropping into his lap and wriggling until he decides he’s comfortable.

Isaac lets it happen. He meets Preston’s long-suffering gaze, Hancock’s open amusement, Nick’s _you brought it all on yourself, and I don’t have any sympathy for you_. None of them are offering alternate seating arrangements, he can’t help but notice. Figures.

“You get too twitchy, I’m dumping you on the ground,” he tells Deacon. “Those are my terms. We’re not negotiating.”

“That’s more than reasonable. Pumpkin seeds? Freshly toasted, sometime within the last month or so. At least, that’s what the nice lady down in Diamond City told me. And why would she lie to a customer?” Deacon offers him a crinkled paper bag he pulls from god knows where. Against his better judgment, Isaac takes a couple of seeds and passes it back.

“You bring enough to share with the community?” Hancock wants to know. “There’s a rule about that. And if there’s not, I’m making one. Mayor says split the loot.”

“If I planned on sharing, I’d be sitting in _your_ lap,” Deacon says. “You want these crispy, honey-slathered, salted-to-perfection snacks? You’ll have to go through this guy to get ‘em.” He nudges Isaac’s ribs with an elbow; at least he has the sense to be careful about it. And _honey-slathered, salted-to-perfection_ might be pushing it a little, but the snacks aren’t bad, and dinner was a Codsworth-driven experimental disaster involving boiled molerat meat and expired mustard. Nobody wants the leftovers; he’ll need to be up before dawn tomorrow to go hunting for everyone’s breakfast. Assuming the storm lets up. If not, they’ll all go hungry. Good times in Sanctuary Hills.

Isaac holds out a hand, and Deacon obligingly fills it with more pumpkin seeds. “Tribute accepted,” Isaac tells him. He shrugs at Hancock. “I’d share, but it feels way more Communist than I’m comfortable with.”

“He’s got you there, comrade,” Deacon says through a mouthful of seeds.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Curie says from her place in Piper’s lap. “I did not realise I should bring a gift. Is this a cultural matter? I suppose I am essentially repurposing you as furniture, Miss Piper; I do not want to cause offense. Should I go and find something suitable? There are snack cakes in the-”

“ _No_ ,” Preston says before Piper can reply. “After the effort it took to get everyone in the same room, I’d rather we didn’t all start wandering off. At this rate, the meeting won’t be over until dawn.”

“I’m ready whenever everyone else is,” Danse says.

“Would you get a load of this guy,” Hancock says. “Teacher’s goddamn pet. Did you bring Preston an apple, Danse? Maybe a pamphlet on all the reasons why he shouldn’t be letting nasty, wrinkly ghouls into his nice meeting room?”

“Or synths,” Nick mutters from his half of the ragged couch. “Never know when we’ll start making suspicious ticking noises. It’s more than your life’s worth to let me in on this meeting. And Hancock’s probably radioactive; stands to reason we should both be excused from class. Curie too.”

“Oh no,” Curie says. “I enjoy these meetings! They are a welcome opportunity to observe all my closest friends in a natural environment, without the threat of imminent dismemberment or organ failure or exsanguination-”

“You know that’s not a normal thing that normal people say, right?” Piper asks. “Nobody should be taking you on missions that involve… _exsanguination_. You don’t have to put up with this, you can go on strike. File a complaint. Or if you don’t want to do that, you can let _me_ do it, because I’m not even a little bit scared of the boss in blue. One article on ethics violations at Sanctuary settlement, coming right up.” She glares; it’s made only a little less intimidating by Curie soothingly patting the top of her head.

Isaac glares right back. “It was a laboratory, I needed a scientist-”

“Chem lab!” Piper barks at him.

“I didn’t know that when I raided the fucking place. I saw lab coats and test tubes, I called for backup. Also, ‘ethics violations’? Have you _seen_ the world these days? The fact that I don’t have severed heads lining the main road makes me an ethical employer.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“I feel like I need a whistle or something,” Preston says helplessly. He takes his hat off, scrubbing a hand over his short hair. “Maybe I should train Dogmeat up to howl on command. That’d be pretty effective. Anything that’ll get this meeting started before the rain outside turns black and we’re stuck here together for the rest of the night. I’m not sure I can hold out until dawn.”

Deacon leans back against Isaac’s chest, twisting to mutter, “Total lack of hat fashion sense aside, the man has a point. Cover your ears.”

By this stage, Isaac knows not to question an order given in that tone. His hands are half way there before he’s conscious of moving, and he lets them keeping going. Cuts off Piper’s attempt to convince Curie that she’s being exploited, and MacCready’s, “So, this chem lab _nobody told me about_. Did you sell the goods? Where’s my cut?” and Cait apparently finds the noise comforting, if her fairly realistic snores are anything to go by-

Deacon’s shrill whistle is loud even with the hands over his ears. Isaac winces, kicking at the other man’s shin in protest. Still, he can’t deny it’s effective. Everyone shuts up.

“Wow,” Deacon says in the sudden silence. “Never thought that would come in handy. The things you learn at kiddie football games. I yield the floor to Garvey, may he use it well.”

“Thanks, Deacon, I’ll, uh, do my best.”

“I think I just went deaf in one ear,” MacCready says. “You planning on covering my medical bills, assho-uh, jerk?”

“ _Raiders_ ,” Preston says, cutting off any response. His hat back in place, he sits up a little straighter and reaches for the chalk. “Threatening Minutemen territory. Scaring settlers. Come on, this is a serious problem; I need everyone tuned in to this meeting, or we’re going to start seeing casualties among the people we promised to protect.”

_You promised,_ Isaac thinks idly, and any other day he’d say it. But the rain’s beating heavier on the roof, and if it’s not a proper rad storm yet, it probably will be. Nobody has protective armour in here. If the Geiger counters start freaking out, they really will be house-bound until it calms down a little. The sooner they finish up here, the less chance he’ll be subjected to a community sleepover.

Deacon picks that moment to offer him more pumpkin seeds, wriggling in Isaac’s lap like he doesn’t really believe the threat to drop him on the floor was real.

“Can’t you go and annoy Hancock?” Isaac mutters, and takes the seeds.

“Trust me, I’d love to,” Deacon says. “But then I wouldn’t get to experience the joys of your amazingly muscled thighs. This is a revelation. I’m having life-changing epiphanies, right here under this roof. Mm.”

“Power armour does that.”

“In that case, I’d like to totally revise my attitude towards the Brotherhood as a whole. I get what you see in them. Yeah, they’re fucking _racist_ , but their _thighs_. Praise the lord.”

“Not that the Brotherhood requires your approval,” Danse says, “But I don’t see how those two things compare. At all.”

Hancock picks that moment to laugh, loud, flashing yellowed teeth in Danse’s direction. “Out of the loop again? Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. At all.”

A responsible leader would be stepping in by now, Isaac knows. Preston’s certainly sending him enough pointed looks; Danse would be outright telling him to, if he wasn’t so busy inching back from Hancock’s leer. Someone should be taking charge here. And while Isaac’s still tossing up on the whole _General of the Minutemen_ idea, he’s aware that everyone here assumes he’ll take it eventually. If only because he wouldn’t let anyone else give him orders.

A responsible leader would be standing by that blackboard with Preston. A decent _man_ would at least do something to cut the tension brewing between Danse, Hancock, and occasionally Nick. Step in to dissuade Piper from publishing buried secrets that piss off the Sanctuary crew; force Strong to stop with the comments on how best to prepare human flesh for consumption.

_Yeah_ , Isaac thinks. _And while I’m at it, I’ll make Cait stop wrestling yao guai for giggles, and tell Preston to fucking quit trying to turn us all into a family._

He could also push Deacon gently off his lap and tell him they can’t be doing this anymore. No more borderline non-platonic touching; no more treating each other like they’re a couple of days’ bonding and a glass of good scotch away from falling into bed together. No more flirting, no more teasing, no more skirting the edges of what they both want and don’t want to want. If he says it the right way, they might even come out of it still friendly.

Or he could wrap his arms loosely around Deacon’s waist and say, “Alright, time out, everyone. As fun as all this is, I can’t afford the number of Stimpacks it’ll take to fix Preston’s rising blood pressure. Let the soldier talk, for fuck’s sake.”

“Thanks,” Preston says. He has the nerve to smile at Isaac; everyone else has the nerve to actually do as he tells them.

It’s sickening to watch them all clam up on command. _Isaac’s_ command. Even MacCready quits his half-hearted flirtation with a sleepy Cait, and turns in Preston’s direction. Danse salutes. He catches himself a moment later; remembers that by Brotherhood standards, he outranks Isaac by a long way. For now. Group consensus seems to suggest that’ll change before long.

_Look at you all_ , Isaac thinks, and he’s glad he has Deacon to hide his expression from view. _If ever there was a sign that we’re fucked without hope of salvation, that was it. You all think I’m the one in charge here_.

“Bossy,” Deacon whispers, and the moment is ruined. Isaac tightens his arms around the other man’s waist a little, and he’s not sure if it’s gratitude or reproach. Bit of both.

“Carry on, Preston,” he says.

“Sir,” Preston says, like he always does when he feels Isaac’s shown admirable leadership and wants to acknowledge it. Like if he says it enough, the Minutemen General’s hat might fall from the sky and land on Isaac’s head. Preston is starved for a hero. A legend. He’s mistaken if he thinks that he’s found one, but he’ll work that out in his own time. No sense in stomping all over a man’s dreams if dreams are all he has to keep him fighting.

“First sightings of the raiders came from the east,” Preston says, turning to the map taped up to his blackboard. “Here, and here. A couple of our more regular merchants left word, but I didn’t really start worrying until Tenpines Bluff sent a runner our way to say they’d spotted a scout.”

“He says ‘runner’, but the man I saw wasn’t doing much running,” Deacon says in a low voice. He turns his head;  Isaac leans in to listen. Props his chin up on Deacon’s shoulder. “More like a ‘slow jogger’. ‘Stumbler’. ‘Half-assed reverse moon-walker’. I don’t think he was trying at _all_.”

“I could request a Vertibird to conduct a search over the area,” Danse offers.

Isaac lifts his head. “Think you’ll find that goes against the unspoken agreement I have with Maxson,” he says pleasantly. “Vertibirds on Minutemen territory have a habit of nose-diving straight into the dirt. We’re not really sure how it happens.”

“It’s Bermuda Triangle levels of mystery,” Deacon says. Isaac presses his fingers gently into the other man’s ribcage. It’s not a hug; more making sure he knows his support is appreciated.

“Now that’s real funny, because I hear some similar shit’s been going down around Goodneighbor and the like,” Hancock says. “And it’s not just limited to ‘birds. I’ve heard stories about Brotherhood people taking nose-dives all over the place. Just can’t figure it out, myself. Nick’s the detective, you should try asking him.”

“Play nice, John,” Nick says. “You know he can’t do that. He’d have to start by acknowledging that I have actual opinions. Don’t want to cause any psychological meltdowns; we’re all friends here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Cait objects. She rolls over onto her back, apparently ignoring the concrete floor underneath her. Squints blearily up at them all. “Are we all still pretending to talk strategy here, or have we finally decided to settle things with our fists, the proper way? Winner tells the rest of you to screw yourselves and goes to bed. I’ve been on patrol all day, and I’ve about had enough of your bickering.”

“Nobody’s brawling-“ Preston starts.

“I hope not,” Curie says. “I have none of my medical equipment with me. I would have to run and get it; could you perhaps delay this fight until I return? We should observe proper safety precautions, after all.”

“I don’t know how you manage to suck the fun out of everything,” Cait tells her. “’Proper safety precautions’?”

“She’s just trying to avoid another emergency blood transfusion in the middle of a rad storm,” Piper says. “You leave her alone. Just…go back to sleep, I’m pretty sure we’ll be done here soon. Soonish.”

“I am sure you cannot be comfortable on that floor, Cait,” Curie says. “Here. If you roll my coat up, like so, it will make an acceptable pillow, and spare you from pain in your neck.” She hands over her coat. Cait shakes her head.

“Too bloody nice for your own good,” she says. But she takes the coat and rolls over onto her side, turning her back on them all. She’ll be out cold within minutes; nobody sleeps through hurricanes quite like Cait.

Deacon leans back, his breath tickling Isaac’s ear. “If I’d known this was going to turn into a slumber party, I’d have packed my party pajamas. The ones with the ducks.”

“If I see those again, I’m burning them,” Isaac whispers back.

“If you want the happy hippopotamus print instead, all you gotta do is say.”

“Or you could just sleep naked.” He’s not serious about it; mostly just looking for a distraction from the Danse-Hancock-Nick sideshow, and Preston scrawling sighting reports on his blackboard, so they’ll be ready for whenever people feel like listening. MacCready snoring gently; Dogmeat doing the same.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Deacon says. “I should have guessed.”

_What_ \- Isaac starts to ask, and then Deacon is moving in his lap, shifting his hips in a way that feels intentional. He’s so casual about it. Still chewing on pumpkin seeds, tilting his head to follow Hancock’s sarcasm, and grinding lazily down on Isaac’s dick.

It’s so unexpected, Isaac doesn’t have a response for him. Doesn’t even have the sense to shove him off right away. He should. He really, really should.

There are a lot of things he _should_ do. But Deacon’s closer than he has been in a full month, perched almost vulnerable on Isaac’s thighs, the nape of his neck within kissing distance. The edges of his wig don’t quite cover up inch-long red hair. He’s letting it grow.

Isaac feels lust stir, hot and persistent in the base of his stomach.

“I thought we’d agreed to keep things platonic,” he says in a low voice. “’Cause I might be mistaken, but this is starting to feel a little more like a lap dance.”

“Mind out of the gutter, pal,” Deacon tells him. And wriggles again, until they’re pressed back to chest, his ass rubbing up against Isaac’s pelvis. “Them’s some totally unfounded accusations you’re throwing around, you gotta watch that kind of thing. I might get the wrong idea.”

“Is there a right one?”

“I could come up with a dozen different explanations just off the top of my head. Your keys are digging into my thigh; a feral knocked me on my ass earlier and I have this massive bruise shaped like the entire continent of Africa; my nervous system has this medical disorder that means I can’t stop twitching, it’s got this bullshit technical name I can’t remember-”

“Or you’re just trying to fuck with me,” Isaac says.

Deacon pats his knee. “Or that,” he agrees. “Is it working? Mm, talk about seven inches of unnecessary question.”

“Maybe it’s just my keys.”

“You don’t _have_ any keys,” Deacon says. He twists in Isaac’s lap, pointedly, until Isaac grabs a handful of his shirt and hisses, “Knock it off.”

“ _Knock it off_ ,” Deacon mimics. “Wow, that sure is a convincing argument you got there, pal. I’m totally sold. You just talked me into cleaning up my act, turning my life around, making myself a better man.” He braces a hand on Isaac’s knee. Slowly rubs his ass over Isaac’s dick, and if he was only semi-hard before, that’s changing fast. Isaac feels his breathing quicken. He’s pushing back before he can stop himself.

Deacon gives another appreciative hum. “There are so many things wrong with you, but this definitely isn’t one of them.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Isaac retorts. “I’m not the one riding a guy’s dick in the middle of a _strategy meeting_.” He’s kept his voice low so far, but it’s getting harder as his pulse quickens. He almost feels guilty; after telling everyone else to goddamn pay attention to Preston’s briefing, he’s gone and missed the last five minutes. Danse is listening. Hancock, Nick, Piper, Curie, even Dogmeat. Cait’s gone back to sleep, and MacCready too, but those two had patrol duty most of the day. Isaac has no such excuse.

He’s lucky Preston’s too busy sketching out raider sightings to look directly at him.

Deacon starts running his fingers up the inner seam of Isaac’s pants; there’s an air of victory to his smirk, a _guess I win this round_ that Isaac instinctively rails against.

He came to this meeting genuinely prepared to behave himself. All set to hear Preston out, to get everyone in agreement about the easiest and most entertaining way of solving the problem, and then walking out with the whole team satisfied.

Apparently Deacon has other plans. “Are you doing this for a reason?” Isaac mutters into his ear, wincing as Deacon stretches slowly, rolling his shoulders, arching his back. “I thought we decided this was a no-go area?”

“We did,” Deacon agrees. “And last I checked, nobody’s broken any rules, except for this one time I repurposed a bunch of golf balls as explosives. Did you know that’s illegal in the state of Massachusetts? I sure didn’t. And then I went and tried to turn myself in, as any good citizen would, but the closest police station was just _dead_ , man. Guess everyone was on lunch break.”

_Rules are off,_ Isaac translates. _For…some reason. Either I’ve pissed you off, or you’re happy with me._ He doesn’t know which, and he finds he doesn’t care.

Mostly, he just hates losing.

“We’re estimating a group of twenty, at the very least,” Preston says over by the blackboard. Isaac makes eye contact and gives the man a serious nod; casually, he moves his hands from Deacon’s waist to rest on his thighs. Squeezes gently.

Contrary to stopping him, Deacon just shifts his own hands, the paper bag of pumpkin seeds clasped loosely between them, a little higher up his lap. Blocking off the view from anyone else who might be looking their way. It’s subtle; he might almost have planned the whole thing. Except, that would require him to have decided way in advance that he was going into this group meeting with the intention of getting  Isaac’s hands in places _platonic_ shouldn’t go.

But there’s nothing platonic about the way he’s rocking his hips, pressing hard against Isaac’s dick. He has his boots planted on the ground on either side of Isaac’s; making sure it’s not too much weight, that he’s not coming down too heavy. It gives him the upper hand. And Isaac can’t do shit to help himself out.

Doesn’t mean he can’t fight a different battle.

“You didn’t think this through very well,” Isaac mutters into Deacon’s ear. He drags his palms slowly up the other man’s thighs, letting his thumbs graze the edge of an already impressive bulge. Nice size, nice shape; he already knows how good it fits in his hands. And his mouth.

“You won’t believe this, but I didn’t think it through at all,” Deacon says, his lips barely moving. He keeps his head turned in Preston’s direction. Looks for all the world like he’s fascinated by week-old settler reports. But he’s as jumpy as a rad-rabbit, twitching as Isaac slides a hand between his legs and squeezes. “You’re, uh, making the thinking thing difficult.”

“Pot, kettle.” He squeezes again, and Deacon’s full body shudder has him biting off a curse, bucking up against his ass.

“Two can play at this game, pal,” Deacon tells him. “How would you feel about a totally honest bet between buddies? I’m offering really good odds on both of us staggering out of this room with the bluest balls I’ve seen outside of a snooker table.”

Isaac doesn’t dignify that with a reply. He has one hand on Deacon’s left thigh, tugging his legs a little wider, upping the risk an inch or so further. His other hand is already at work. He drags the heel of his palm across the shape of Deacon’s dick. Slow enough not to draw attention. The denim’s getting hot under his hand. And he thinks that, behind the sunglasses, Deacon’s eyes might be closed.

Over by the board, Preston continues his briefing. “Abernathy farm hasn’t seen anything, and none of our merchants have been attacked yet. But we all know what raiders are like. They spot any sign of weakness, they’ll tear our people apart for the sake of a few caps and some vegetables. So, uh, I had a couple of ideas. And if anyone else wants to contribute strategy, I’ll make a list we can vote on.”

“Hope you’re paying attention,” Isaac hisses. “There’ll be a test at the end.” He rubs his thumb over the tip of Deacon’s dick, through his jeans; he can almost feel it twitching under his touch. The need to get a hand under the denim is…considerable. Isaac settles for lingering on Deacon’s fly, like he’s thinking about just tugging it open.

He is. They’re in a room full of people, some of them pretty goddamn perceptive, and he’s still thinking about popping the button on Deacon’s pants and getting his hand down the front of them.

“Bad idea,” Deacon whispers. “Well, okay, _good_ idea. Seriously, fan-frickin’-tastic idea, but also really likely to get us both caught. Which would be awkward.”

“Yeah?” Isaac closes his fingers over the shape of Deacon’s dick, as best as he can manage, flexing his palm up the length of him.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Deacon says. “I mean, awkward for you. I can just go change my face. Pick a new name, new identity, never show myself around here again. You’re the one that still has to work with these people in the morning.” He shudders against Isaac’s hand, twitching every time Isaac squeezes.

“You’re assuming I care what they think about me.”

“I never make assumptions. You know what they say; an assumption makes an ass out of u and…hold up, that doesn’t work at _all_. Would you _stop_ doing that thing with your thumb. It’s ruining my ability to spout lame platitudes- _okay_ , wow, or not.”

“Keep it down,” Isaac says softly. “What will the neighbours think?”

“I’ll tell ‘em you’re sticking pins in me,” Deacon whispers back. “You don’t have patience for that voodoo doll business, you’re all about the personal touch.” He inhales sharply as Isaac slips a couple of fingers under the hem of his jeans.

“This isn’t torture,” Isaac tells him. “This is me beating you at your own game. Admit it. You didn’t think I’d play along.”

“I’d tell you I was sorry, but neither of us would buy it for a _second_.” And sunglasses or not, Deacon definitely has his eyes closed. He breathes in, slow and even, and Isaac can feel him shake with the effort of pretending they’re not getting each other hot in the middle of this useless meeting.

The whole situation is funny, in a twisted kind of way. Funny in the sense that only half the people in the room would even be shocked it was happening; the rest would either not care, or cheer them along. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing anyone’s seen all day. That award goes to the ancient feral that ankle-tapped Danse in the middle of a Concord sewer earlier; even Isaac didn’t know it was possible to hop one-legged in power armour with a ghoul clinging to the other. Compared to that, nobody would even bat an eyelash to him and Deacon getting friendlier than usual. It doesn’t compare.

Isaac lowers his head, leaning into Deacon’s back and letting his shoulders shake with laughter. The added friction, rubbing up against Deacon’s jeans, is more than welcome.

Just being this close to him is welcome.

He’s distantly aware of Preston listing strategies on his blackboard; Danse favours a full-frontal assault, Nick wants to scout, Hancock suggests booby traps and deception. Curie says they should try and recruit the raiders instead, and Piper explains why that’s unlikely to work, and Preston…

Wants to know what Isaac thinks.

“I think he’s passed out on me,” Deacon says. “Hey, pal, that had better not be drool I feel on my shirt. There are limits. My back is a drool-free area, and if you’re gonna disobey the rules, then I’ll be forced to call security. And my lawyer. I’ll take you for everything you’ve got, I swear. Something, something, irreparable emotional damage.”

Isaac lifts his forehead off Deacon’s back. “I’m with Danse,” he says, and ignores the way Hancock rolls his eyes. “And Nick. Scouts first, we narrow the area down, then we launch an ambush if possible.”

“And if not?” Preston wants to know.

“Then I get to break in my new missile launcher,” Isaac says flatly. “And we can ambush whatever’s left when the ground stops smoking.”

“Overly aggressive, unnecessarily violent, and wrapped up in enough legit military strategy that it’ll probably work,” Deacon says. “I guess it falls to me to point out that these raiders haven’t actually hurt anyone yet, so, technically? Not real raiders. More like scavvers fallen on hard times. And you can’t rely on settlement reports to accurately estimate numbers, because those tend to be exaggerated. There. That’s my contribution. Now who wants to debate me?  Better watch out, I’m a _master_. I did those weird model United Nations debate things, you should have seen me as Russia. I spent most of it downing straight vodka and claiming it was part of my character.”

“You want us to take a chance on these raiders not actually being a threat?” Isaac asks, incredulous. He keeps his hands still in Deacon’s lap; too many eyes on them right now to do anything else.

“I just think we should maybe not default to mass murder as the solution to every little problem that comes along,” Deacon says. “And I know we’ve had this talk before. You did agree to tone it down, and I believed you at the time. Minus ten Deacon approval points for _you_.”

“Do we lose a friendship level? Am I free to replace you with Nick now?” Isaac rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t listening. Just that you’d better have something more solid than idealism to back you up here. Tenpines Bluff probably won’t appreciate getting flattened if you’re wrong.”

“There’s no room for the benefit of doubt here,” Danse interjects. “If they haven’t turned to raiding yet, they clearly intend to.”

“I’m with you on this, Paladin,” Preston agrees. “The signs aren’t good. They’re going to strike if we don’t stop them, and we promised these settlers Minutemen protection. That has to mean something.”

“Well, yeah, so long as we’re sure,” Piper says. She glances at Isaac. Looking for…something. Reassurance. A decision. Neither of which he has on him right now.

He’s saved from having to answer by a knocking on the door. It’s loud, over the rainfall outside; Isaac’s hands are immediately gone from Deacon’s lap, reaching for the gun on his hip. Deacon shuffles forward to give him access.

“Fire at will, pal,” he says. “I bet Codsworth’s just _jumping_ with joy at the thought of getting shot a few more times. You know how much he loves having to buff out the damage afterwards.”

“No,” Curie says, frowning at him. “Monsieur Deacon, you are mistaken. There is nothing Codsworth likes _less_ than being shot at, or so he has told me. Are you certain you heard him correctly? Perhaps there has been some kind of misunderstanding here.”

Deacon raises his hands, at loss for words. Piper leans in, whispering, “ _Sarcasm._ We talked about this, remember?”

“I do remember,” Curie agrees. “But I am afraid that despite your explanation, I find myself unable to identify this form of humour outside of a controlled environment. Naturally occurring sarcasm is beyond my abilities, it seems. I am sorry, Piper. The fault is not with your teaching. You are too kind to me.”

“See, now I feel like a monster,” Deacon says. “What a great way to end this meeting. Are we going to let our old buddy Codsworth join the fiesta, or do we all cluster around the windows and laugh at him while he rusts?”

“Come in, Codsworth,” Isaac calls.

“No need to rush on my account, sir.” Doorways are a challenge for Codsworth. He tilts himself sideways and edges through, skeletal arms folded up against his body. Being Codsworth, he almost manages to make the exercise look dignified. “It’s not as if I have better things to do than hang around in the rain all day. Always happy to serve, that’s my motto.”

“A little less of the attitude, yeah?” Isaac retorts. “You were out there thirty seconds, if that. You’ll live.”

“Sympathetic as always, Mister Isaac,” Codsworth says, and Isaac feels Deacon sigh.

“And you wonder why he doesn’t like you,” he mutters, shuffling down Isaac’s lap to perch on his knees. Genuinely platonic territory; his point is made. Isaac bids a silent goodbye to his chances for a post-meeting afterparty.

“What’s up, Codsworth?” Preston asks, which saves Isaac from having to endure more robotic reproach from the damn _butler_. “You want to join the meeting? We’re…not really making much progress. If you have any bright ideas-”

Codsworth oscillates in place, his version of a head shake. “I’m afraid the radiation storm we’d hoped to avoid is on its way. We have approximately twenty minutes before it becomes a safety hazard- though, as was so astutely pointed out, I have nothing to worry about. _I’ll live_. The rest of you, on the other hand…”

“Thank you, Codsworth,” Piper says.

“You’re a lifesaver, brother,” Hancock agrees. “I’m all about community initiatives, but next time we have one of these meetings, I’m bringing something to mellow me out.”

“Sign me up too,” Cait says from the floor. She raises a lazy hand.

Danse folds his arms. “Mind-altering substances at a tactical meeting-”

“For fuck’s sake.” Isaac shoves Deacon off his knees and stands, wincing as his thighs protest. Already missing the other man’s weight, and that does nothing for his temper. He is, however, grateful for Codsworth’s incredible ability to kill arousal stone cold dead. Small mercies and all that. “We’re done here, everyone get out. You want to fight, I can’t stop you, but don’t do it where I can see. Preston, we’ll get back to your raiders in the morning. Separately.”

“I’ll make a survey, I guess,” Preston says. “If we can’t handle a meeting. Which we obviously can’t.”

_Don’t look at me like that’s my problem,_ Isaac bites back. The longer he extends the discussion, the longer he has to stick around- and people are already leaving. Despite the reluctance involved in getting them all together in the first place, the meeting disperses lightning fast. Codsworth is gone already, Piper hot on his nonexistent heels; she grabs Curie by the hand and hauls her out of the building. Cait shoves a shutter open and climbs out the window in lieu of waiting for the doorway to clear. Danse lingers near the blackboard like he can’t quite make himself leave with the matter unresolved; it takes Preston shaking his head and dusting his hands off to get the point across. And somehow, that too becomes Isaac’s fault.

Deacon wanders over to the blackboard, picking up a piece of discarded chalk. He sketches an X on Preston’s map. East of Tenpines Bluff, north of the General Atomic Galleria.

“Well done, Deacon,” Preston says tiredly. “You found a lake. Thanks for your contribution.”

“See, now you’ve driven _Preston_ to sarcasm,” Isaac says. “That’s my job.”

“Yeah, well, pat yourselves both on the back for managing to totally miss my point,” Deacon says. He points to the X. “Observe. Lake Kwan- Quack- Whatever, the sign is mostly gone anyway. Doesn’t matter, it’s not the lake itself we need to worry about; your _raiders_ are camped out on the shore. I counted twelve. And last I saw, they were trying to stop baby mirelurks from running off with half the laundry line, so I got no idea how they’re planning to take out an armed settlement. Maybe they’re hiding a tank in one of their tragic little tents? Yeah, that sounds real plausible to me.”

He lifts the chalk and drops it pointedly into the container with the rest. _Deacon out._

Isaac exhales, closing his eyes. “You knew all along.”

“I sure did.”

“How long?”

“’bout a week.”

“You bastard.”

“I had to,” Deacon says, and Isaac opens his eyes. “As entertaining as the Sanctuary circus is to watch, at some point the fun and games are gonna have to stop. Someone has to sit the clowns down and make them work with the acrobats and the exotic Danse-ers and the strongmen-slash-women and…yeah. What I’m saying is, you need a ringleader.”

“On the one hand, I agree,” Preston says. “On the other, I also agree with the look on Isaac’s face right now. That…was not a good thing you did. Keeping your mouth shut. We don’t have many Minutemen spare right now, and I assigned them all to hunt down this potential threat. They could have been doing other things. Helping settlements.”

“Minutemen resource allocation is _so_ not my problem,” Deacon says cheerfully. “Team Railroad, remember? I don’t work for your folks.” He’d never be so blasé about it around Danse or MacCready; with just Preston and Isaac left in the room, he clearly feels safe in drawing the line.

It’s something Isaac can’t afford to forget. Whatever the relationship between them is (and he still doesn’t know; has a feeling Deacon doesn’t either), it’s a separate thing to the work they do. Deacon sitting in his lap doesn’t equal Deacon sharing intel he doesn’t feel Isaac needs to know.

That being said, he does tend to have his reasons. Some of them are even half way legitimate.

“So what did the Railroad get out of this?” Isaac asks. “You had a…package among those ‘raiders’? Or did you just need Minutemen troops diverted from somewhere else? Did you evacuate an asset right under my nose?”

He sees Deacon’s smile widen, and the expression is _proud_. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” Deacon says, but the smile says something completely different. “You know what we’re like about compartmentalizing. Nobody knows everything.”

“Except you.”

“Naw, man, you got me all wrong. I’m just the janitor.”

“You’re a pain in the neck, is what you are.” But the secrecy is ridiculous, and a waste of time on top of that; there’s no goddamn reason for the Railroad to hide from Minutemen troops. Preston is pro-synth rights. Isaac’s supposed to be running the whole operation. And there’s a part of him that wants to throw his hands in the air and walk out of this disaster, but isn’t that the reason shit like this happens in the first place? Nobody talks to anyone else. And soldiers can’t fight blind; the troops need a mediator.

“Preston,” Isaac says, and Preston nods to him.

“General?”

He takes a breath. “We’re almost out of time before the storm, you have to turn in. But tomorrow Deacon’s going to tell you _exactly_ where these ‘raiders’ are, and _exactly_ how many he observed, and what their weapons look like, because I know he took notes on that.” He glances over at Deacon and gets a placid shrug in return. “And then we’re going to bring these people in to Sanctuary before they decide they’re hungry enough to take a shot at one of my settlements. I spent a lot of time getting Tenpines Bluff sorted out.”

“Copy that, General,” Preston says. He sounds so relieved about it; Isaac wants to shake him. “Food might be a little short at first, but once we get them to work that’ll take care of itself. We could use more people on hunting duty. And extra patrols. Yeah, this might work out really well for us.”

“And then we’re going to have a chat about the Railroad,” Isaac tells both of them. That gets their attention. “We’re right on the edge of the Commonwealth here. Deacon, you’re going to tell us what you need the Minutemen to do, to make this a feasible route for…package deliveries. You need patrols moved, you fucking _tell_ me. I’ll move them. You need an escort out of ‘Wealth territory, or somewhere to stash your package for a few days before you move them out, you tell me. It’s about goddamn time we got some kind of cooperation going on here. The Minutemen can help.”

Deacon chews his lip, but Preston is already nodding in agreement. “That’s what we’re here for,” he says. “And I know your people do good work, Deacon. Rescuing slaves? Hell yeah, I want in on that. Of course I do. You remember what your Railroad is named after, right? ‘Cause I know what my history looks like, and I’m pretty sure you know it too.”

“It’s a little different,” Deacon starts, and Preston actually grins at him.

“Not your call to make,” he says gently. “Come on. Are your people really going to turn down a guaranteed smuggling route? Like Isaac said, we can move the patrols wherever you want them. We can offer shelter. Protection. Hell, I won’t even ask any questions, if that’s what you want. The General green lights your ops, and I’ll just make sure our Minutemen go where they have to.”

And Deacon shrugs, raises his hands like a man defeated, and says, “Twist my arm. If the _General_ says we gotta team up, then so shall it be. I wouldn’t dream of arguing with him.” He throws Isaac a lazy salute. The quirk to his lips is all smug, all victory, and this-

Is what he wanted all along.

_Not bad,_ Isaac thinks grudgingly. _Smart, even. One new smuggling route for the Railroad, and all it cost you was a lap dance and a week of keeping secrets._ The irritation’s gone, though; mostly he’s just impressed. Doesn’t really believe the lap dance happened for any reason other than Deacon felt like it, though if he’s going to start offering that kind of incentive for Railroad work, then Isaac won’t argue.

Not that Deacon needs that kind of tactic to get what he wants. All he has to do is be the sneakiest person in the room at any given time. Best informed, most patient, the guy who has the last word in a debate. They had people like him, back in the war. The men and women with the maps and intel and enemy troop locations. Scary folks. Professionals.

Fuck, it’s good to work with someone that skilled again.

“Always nice to see some inter-team cooperation,” Isaac says. “If we’re lucky, the Railroad might even decide to start sharing some of its information. Seeing as we’re all about playing fair.” He sees Deacon’s smile turn wry, and reaches over to give his shoulder an almost friendly push. “Preston might help you for free, but unfortunately he went and made _me_ General. That smuggling route comes with a price tag.”

“Do you accept payment in pumpkin seeds?” Deacon asks. “Yeah, alright. I’ll work something out with Dez.”

It’s the end of the discussion, and they all move towards the door. Meeting concluded; Preston walks like a man with a weight off his shoulders, and Deacon struts like a peacock in sunglasses, and Isaac thinks longingly of hot mutfruit tea and an early night on an actual mattress.

Instead, what he’s getting is power armour, and at least an hour of safety checks before he can be sure they’ll all survive the night.

Preston leaves them at the door, tipping his hat before he goes. The rain falls heavy enough to obscure him from view within seconds; Isaac stands in the doorway and watches him go. Deacon is lingering, standing close enough that the loose sleeve of his T-shirt bunches against Isaac’s Vault suit.

“Happy?” Isaac asks. “I fucking would be.”

“Happy as a clam,” Deacon says. “Which…makes no sense. How happy can clams be? What do they got down there in clam-land that we’re missing? Democracy? Disneyland? Chocolate cheesecake brownies? Yeah, I might’ve skipped dinner earlier.”  

“Don’t do that to me again. The manipulation.” He’s serious. And some of it must show on his face; Deacon looks at him for a long moment, and swallows whatever smart comment he was holding on to.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Guess I could…try not to do that. Old habits die hard.”

“If you need someone to make sure they’re properly dead,” Isaac says.

“Your point. I take it.”

“Pretty impressive, though,” Isaac says. He doesn’t turn his head, but from the corner of his eye he can see Deacon’s head jerk to stare at him. “Let me know if you come up with something similar for the Brotherhood. Or the Rust Devils.” He follows an abrupt impulse, drapes a companionable arm around Deacon’s shoulders. And no one is more surprised than him when Deacon leans into the loose hold.

“Rust Devils are a lost cause,” Deacon says. “As for the Brotherhood… I got nothing. Seriously. Back out in Capital Wasteland, yeah, no problem. Those folks were reasonable. Partly because their leaders were real people.”

“So what’s Maxson?”

“A prophet.” Deacon’s expression is bleak. “Ain’t nobody can negotiate with that kind of crazy. Your best bet is to put him down before he starts cleansing the land with holy nuclear fire and rains of mutant frogs, etcetera. I don’t actually know what he has in his arsenal. No way to get any agents up onto that fuck-off huge flying ship of his.”

“Danse wants me up there,” Isaac says. He plays his fingers over Deacon’s bicep, squeezing gently. “I have to go sooner or later. If I’m nice enough, they might lend me a suit of their armour.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“You’re welcome to come with.”

“Guess I’m all out of excuses to avoid it,” Deacon says. He laughs; it’s only slightly hollow. “And, hey, who knows? Maybe you’ll pull some more surprise leadership out of a hat for us. I sure do love a good magic trick. Think that one might be one of my favourites.”

“Depending on how much of an actual military this is,” Isaac says, “’Surprise leadership’ might consist of me burning down an airship with a bunch of people inside. Fair warning.”

“Works for me.”

“Jesus, you’re weird.” The rain is starting to thicken; where droplets strike the ground, they shine, faintly oily. Isaac reluctantly removes his arm from Deacon’s shoulder. His Pip-Boy crackles softly as he does. “We shut down Gen 1s and 2s and you get sulky for days. You don’t want me ambushing raider camps until we’ve seen _proof_ they’re hurting people. But you have no problem with wiping the Brotherhood off the face of the Commonwealth. Your morals are all over the damn place.”

“That’s why I’m not a leader,” Deacon says. “But you’re a different story.”

He actually bothers to give a little warning; the backs of his fingertips brush Isaac’s cheek, and then he leans in to follow them. Kisses the corner of Isaac’s mouth; his lips are warm, dry, gone as soon as they arrive.

“Don’t stay out all night,” Deacon says. He’s out of reach before Isaac can even consider reaching, stepping out into the oily, heavy rain. “Your armour isn’t rads-proof, and I like you so much better when you don’t glow green in the dark. See you around.” He hesitates, and turns back in Isaac’s direction. “So, when you said, _don’t do that again_ , was that just referring to the sneaky spy work, or…” he gestures between them, and it’s totally inadequate to summarise his meaning, but Isaac takes a guess anyway.

“Any time you want to ride my dick in public,” he says, “You know where to find me. For you, I won’t even charge an admission fee.”

“Man, I love a good freebie,” Deacon says. He grins. Gives Isaac a lazy wave, and turns his back, sloshing his way to proper shelter, Radaway and a decent bed.

First thing the next morning, the General of the Minutemen will formalize a trial alliance with the Railroad. It’ll be one for the history books- assuming they survive long enough for anyone to bother remembering them. Assuming they make a difference. It’s a small change; Desdemona hasn’t authorized it, and Preston’s word alone isn’t enough to guarantee full Minutemen support. One smuggling route won’t save the world.

_Butterflies and mountains,_ Isaac thinks, and then shakes himself. The rain sheds easy from his shoulders; the idea is a different matter.

He can’t shrug off the sense of change on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Depeche Mode's [In Sympathy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iSYCe4Zsm8), entirely because:  
>  _You're bright, you're strong_  
>  _You know your right from wrong_  
>  _(At least to some degree)_  
>  Someone save Deacon from having to keep lowering his standards.


End file.
